


On Distant Shores

by LegendaryBard



Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Adventure, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 06:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16089824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: Snapshots of travel in various Tamrielic countries.( Those Psijic quests, man... )





	1. Alik'r Desert

 

The sky is bluer than it’s ever been. 

The cerulean heavens are shockingly bright and beautiful, contrasting against the washed-out sand and the distant tawny mountains. Sparse clusters of scrub grass and short, leafy trees appear such a striking green that the forests of Valenwood would flush emerald with envy. 

It's breathtaking, but dangerous. 

The Altmer adjusts the scarf around his mouth and rakes his sweaty hair back, capturing it behind his head with a strip of fabric. It doesn't do anything to relieve the unbearable heat, but it keeps the stubborn strands out of his eyes.

Instinct tells him to shed his clothes, but he has heard warnings from the Redguards. The fraction of relief from stripping out of his garb would not even be close to outweighing the burns and blisters he’d receive from the blazing sun. 

Instead, he turns back to his daughter, Solvi. She’s resting by the crest of a dune, staring out at the sandy expanse. Little wisps of her auburn hair stir in a gust of wind, short locks that’ve escaped her headscarf. Her clothing, like his own, is light but all encompassing- well-fitted linen, woolen socks, and scarves. 

At her neck, a pendant glitters. It’s gold, inlaid with a seal. He can feel the magic gently pulsing from it like a second heartbeat. 

It's a charm to keep one cool in the desert. A tricky, expensive item that only the fussiest or wealthiest of travelers could afford. 

He has one, too, but it’s broken. They’d been attacked by bandits and he’d thrown himself to the ground to avoid a hungry blade, saving his life at the expense of dashing his enchanted necklace against a rock. It was a fair trade, but he mourns its loss. 

He hasn't told Solvi about the damage yet. She’ll insist they return to a settlement and get it repaired, costing them days and money.

No, he decides. He’ll suffer. Their errand is urgent. 

And speaking of which... 

“Solvi,” he calls to her, voice soft and wearied, “We should keep going.” 

She nods, absentminded, and stands. Her mind is somewhere else. On the Khajiiti girl they’d seen weeks ago with the pretty fur, or the bauble in a Redguard shop, or the graveness of their unfortunate task. 

The Altmer pulls down his scarf, wetting his dry lips. He weaves a familiar spell when he sticks his fingers in his mouth and blows, calling forth atronachs from the sand. They don't tire, hunger, thirst, or create waste- the ideal mount for long journeys through extreme climates, whether hot, cold, windy, cliff-like, marshy, or dense. 

When the summoned creatures appear, in whirlwinds of flame, his heart pumps liquid fire into his veins. The sun on his back seems to intensify a thousandfold, and his knees nearly buckle. 

The worst of it recedes, but he feels a faintness, a weakness, coming on. A sense of repressed dread balloons in his chest, but he tries to ignore it. 

His mouth seems to have dried to unusability, his tongue glued to its roof. His skin feels like old parchment paper and his legs are shaky and weak. He vaguely wonders how much of it is exposure and how much is magical strain. 

Not that it's a strain to summon a mount, even two, but the blasted sun…

The Altmer swings himself into the saddle, eyes fluttering. Sand swirls in a small, playful dust devil nearby, and the bright blue sky seems to grow more intense. He tears his eyes away.

Solvi has the map. Her strong, graceful fingers trace the scrawled X in the Alik’r. 

“That way,” she points, decisive. He nods, consciously making an effort to stay coherent. A wave of heat blossoms from his back, crawling across his flesh. His entire body is unpleasantly damp in what feels like such a dry place. 

She spurs her steed and he diligently follows, shutting his eyes as he goes. When he winds the cloth back over his mouth, his eyelids feel particularly moist and gritty, sand sticking to perspiring skin. 

He trails after the steady ebb and flow of her charmed medallion, trying to not bake alive. 

“Hey,” The Augur of the Obscure whispers from inside his satchel. He- it- is nestled alongside the paper, quills, alchemical ingredients, and gentle cushioning intended to make a carrying bag a more comfortable place. “Do you wanna know what she’s gonna yell at you when she finds out you broke your sad little meat-man charm?” 

He ignores the Augur. The skull grates on him, in an endearing but still highly irritating way. He’d rather hold the map and let Solvi hold the sk-

… Well, no, he wouldn't. Perhaps it was best he had the Augur. He’s worried that Solvi’s brashness and the skull’s brazen disregard for mortalkind would result in some fairly heated arguments.

“No, really,” it says. “It starts with ‘Dad, are you okay, Dad-’ and ends with-” 

“Stop,” the Altmer can't hold his tongue. He doesn't need a play-by-play of an argument he hasn't even had yet. “Why don't we talk about something else?” 

“The wind keeps asking me for favors,” the Augur complains instead. “The sand is giving me a headache.” 

The Altmer’s vision swims and a sudden jolt of terror, or something similar, makes him feel cold. He blinks, rapidly, suddenly finding himself short of breath. 

The sensation subsides, just as quickly as it had come.

It takes a while, but he resettles. The fright dims, though he swears he can't breathe as deeply as he could before. And the heat… It's suffocating. At some point, he rips the scarf off over his mouth. 

The Augur is still chattering about fifth-dimensional Dremora color palettes or some such. This doesn't concern the Altmer until he realizes that he’s retaining exactly none of it, and he’s forgetting sentences that the skull just said. 

_ Maybe I should tell Solvi,  _ he thinks, and then bonelessly slumps over his mount. A few words breach his mind in the last couple moments of awareness, but they go unprocessed as he succumbs to the heat. 

_ \-- “Dad, are you okay? Dad?” _ \-- 

When he wakes up again, he’s in a cool, dry room. He’s mostly nude- with some clothing left for modesty- soaking in what feels like ice-water. A Redguard mage- at least, he presumes she is- presides over him, bustling over a cabinet of alchemical bottles. 

Solvi sits on a chair overlooking his ice bath, and in a moment of hilarity, the Altmer realizes that someone placed the Augur on its own chair beside hers. 

“Dad, I don’t even know what to  _ say  _ to you-” Solvi and the Augur say together, though the Augur is gleeful and Solvi is, rightfully, furious.

“Thank you for saving me, Solvi,” He rasps, and she looks taken aback, clearly not expecting appreciation. “But I’ll take the lecture later.”

 

 


	2. Summerset Isles

After a short voyage, the Altmer steps off of the boat into Shimmerene. 

The passage from Auridon to the Summerset Isles took less than a day’s time, but the cost was nearly what it would be to cross the from eastern Alik’r to western Stonefalls. The hefty price was on purpose, to tighten the quality of riff-raff the newly-opened country would receive. It was a gate, attempting to exclude particular races without saying-so. The only recently emancipated Argonians, the peddling Khajiits, the humble Nords, and the simple Wood Elves would find the price of passage too much, stemming the tide of immigrants hoping to seek their fortune in wealthier lands. 

It was a distasteful practice, but not one that could be protested with the High Elf culture of perfection and impossible refinement. There were too many innocent ways to excuse malicious exclusion.

The Altmer puts these thoughts aside and takes his first step off the gangplank and onto the dock. Solvi trails behind, staring in wonderment at the architecture of Shimmerene.

The air is crisp and clear, tasting of ocean salt; warm, but stirred with an occasional breeze.

The water is crystalline, turquoise, beautiful. The sand is soft and white, with towering spires of coral decorating its shores. The grass is a healthy green, and the distant trees are flecked with soft, plum-and-chalk-colored blossoms. In the hazy amber-rose light of early sunset, the sight of the nature makes him feel something… soft, sentimental, even. He’s never been to the Summerset Isles before, having been born on continental Tamriel; but even so, he feels beset by a troubling sense of nostalgia, a keen feeling of loss. 

He thinks about mentioning this to Solvi while they pass through Shimmerene. But he’s not sure she’ll understand, and he’s loathe to share his feelings. 

For now, he keeps it to himself and enjoys the architecture.

The city itself is beautiful, with elegant townhouses and broad, paved streets, whitewashed brick that contrasts with the vibrant, decorative greenery. There are finely pruned hedges and trees, and carefully cut squares of grass. There are fountains and statues, all wonderful pieces of art, but he doesn't have time to marvel for very long. 

“Another one of those ghastly Nords,” he hears the murmur from not too far away.  “Just what this city needs.” 

It comes from a High Elf couple; out for a sunset tryst, he presumes. Two women, their hair braided and faces powdered, their dresses elegant and jewelry ornate. He doesn't hate them, for their looks or words, but spares a passing stab of animosity. He reaches for Solvi’s shoulder and reassures himself with her presence.

“Don't walk so quickly,” he chides. “I don't want to lose you.” 

She gives him an incredulous look, and understandably so. They have braved more than any mortal had any right to- they had rescued a living god from the brink of death, saved King Jorunn from a murderous plot against his life, reunited the Silvenar and the Green Lady, chosen a new Mane and stood unflinching against Daedric Princes. They had saved Queen Ayrenn from her own brother and his murderous fiance, had toppled the Veiled Inheritance and slain their leaders, became official Eyes of the Queen and journeyed across the planes of reality all the way to Coldharbour. They had crawled through hundreds of dungeons and haunts and fought ten times as many battles. 

It was silly to think that she could not handle herself in a clean, crimeless city, but he had to consider more than Summerset’s natural beauty. The island’s inhabitants- civilized as they claimed to be- were as dangerous as any dremora. He must not be complacent, must not allow this place to lull him into lowering his guard. 

“It’s just for now,” he says, amicably. “You can run off on your own later.” 

The lie drips off of his tongue easily. 

The Altmer is aware of his own paternal parasitism, but he does not trust the prejudiced where his daughter is concerned. This place was idyllic, but its price came with its people. The seemingly innocent, overdramatic outrage at minor infractions could swiftly turn into murderous intent with some High Elves, and he’d die before he’d let his child be attacked for failing to respect a custom she didn't know.

“Fine,” Solvi sighs. 

A cat passes them in the street. There's no collar or bell, but it’s well-cared for, the same way everything in the city is. The Altmer very briefly wonders where the crime and vagrancy is; he’s not so naive that he thinks it's such a utopian society that it simply doesn't exist. It's out there, in some form, possibly even more dangerous since you can't see it. 

They leave Shimmerene, at his insistence, and are almost immediately accosted by a High Elven man shouting gibberish. He mentions a cat and a monster, and the Altmer and Solvi glance at one another, brows arched. 

The elf is all too happy to point them in the direction of the monster, then sprint back into Shimmerene, panting as he goes. 

The Altmer weaves magic into his fingers and whistles, summoning a pair of steeds from the earth. He and Solvi set out, hoofbeats striking a staccato on the finely paved road. 

He glances back at Shimmerene, and from this angle, he can see the western shoreline. The sun has dipped low, staining the sky a deep, defiant orange, while the tranquil ocean waves are stricken a bloody red. 

He turns back to the road, praying it’s not an ill omen. 

 


End file.
